Melody
by Sue Snell
Summary: He'd promised himself he wouldn't think of the job when he was with her, but it was impossible. It always crept in from the back of his mind like a tune without words, not showing its true face until it'd taken root.


**This is the first fic I've posted here in a long while. All feedback is greatly appreciated. Special thanks to my beta, The Incredible Nameless Wonder. I do not own Repo! The Genetic Opera. Duh.**

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He was just one man, but enough to terrify a city. The war drum thud of his heavy boots approaching sent junkies, streetwalkers and other misfits of the night scrambling for cover. The mere sight of his signature long coat and glowing helmet elicited screams, even from those who hadn't yet reached the end of their ninety day waits. It was horror enough to have the reminder, to know he was one among many, his helmet aglow, his coat stinking of blood, his "medical" bag jauntily swinging at the end of one arm, its bloodstained, wicked-sharp contents clinking around inside…

The bright light of his helmet threatened to give him a migraine, hours of work had turned his insulated coat into a damn sauna, his equipment bag swung heavily in his aching hand. He wasn't even done for the night and its refrigerated compartment already held four gallbladders, three kidneys, and a pair of corneas. The only thing missing, he thought bitterly, was a partridge in a goddamn pear tree.

In this case, the partridge was a liver and the pear tree a young lady who lived a block away. He'd saved her for last because her ninety days weren't up yet. Right now she had a good two and a half minutes left, and if a payment appeared in her account soon enough, he'd be alerted and head home for the night. He wasn't optimistic.

Gallbladders, kidneys, corneas. Damn. He'd even started early today, taking the first kidney in broad daylight—well, the closest approximation the city's grimy sky had to offer—but now it'd been dark for hours. His back hurt, his mind wandered, his stomach growled. He'd always been able to pull himself together long enough to chase and trap and kill so far, but nights like this he wondered how long he had left until stress and age and skipping meals got to him and he made a mistake. _Surely he would understand. God knows that I'm just one man. _Rotti_ knows I'm just one man. It's too much for just…_

He slowed his pace and tried to roll the tension out of his shoulders. He'd walked a block now and her house—a dingy shack flanked by identical structures—was in sight. Maybe he'd get lucky and she'd be inside. He checked his watch. Either way, in about twenty-five seconds it'd be time to collect. No time now for idle musings. _Cheer up now, just one to go. Just one liver… I like those…_

As he collected himself, he heard a noise. He looked up to see the doorknob turning on her front door. So there might be a chase. Part of him resented this after all the work he'd already done tonight, but he wasn't too mad. He liked chases too.

She stepped outside, closed the door behind her, and turned to start walking down the street but instead paused, facing away from him. He drew nearer to see what had halted her steps.

From what he could see, she wasn't looking at anything in particular. She just stood there, shivering, though the night was warm. Paralyzed by fear? He'd gotten that before. Her time was up. He advanced.

He didn't _try_ to sneak up on her—not his style—but her eyes were fixed on the other end of street. GeneCo Tower lay that way. Maybe it hadn't occurred to her that he might approach from a different base of operations or that she might not be his first patient tonight.

For someone who knew what was coming, she looked pretty dolled up: A black leather miniskirt and matching top, shiny black shoes, a tight, black leather jacket, and a wide-brimmed black hat. The hat fascinated him. Was she afraid of getting the sun in her eyes? At this hour? She still had yet to move.

Maybe she _wasn't_ planning to run. Maybe she was one of _those_, the ones who thought they could talk him out of it. It would explain the effort to look pretty, at least.

_Sweetheart,_ he thought, smirking, _Is it worth a try? Sleeping with the repo guy? Maybe it won't be so bad?_ He'd often wondered if these patients pictured the man behind the mask as someone young, handsome, and charming in that dangerous sort of way. Well, he noted with a snicker, he wasn't _that_ old yet, so close enough, right? _Not like I could be your d—_

She whipped her head around and gasped upon spotting him. Must've heard him laugh. Smooth move. So, moment of truth. Would she try it? She faced him and he noticed her top showed off a black pearl navel piercing. Cute. Well?

She turned and ran, making her somewhat smarter than he'd first assumed. Her hat blew off with the speed of her passage, revealing a shock of short, bleach blond hair. He had the strangest urge to retrieve it for her but shook it off, chortling. No problem; he'd make sure she'd never worry about the sun getting in her eyes again. He followed her.

He liked it when they ran: Light, hurried footfalls beating out a frantic counterpoint to the measured, relentless cadence of his heavy boots. _Clack clack, clack clack, clack clack clack,_ went her pretty little shoes that weren't made for running. _Thud. Thud. Thud,_ went his boots. They weren't made for running either, but they didn't hinder his long, unyielding strides.

Listening to her clacking, he absentmindedly hummed a little tune to go with it, a melody that'd been circling his brain for an hour or two. He couldn't recall the words to it for the life of him, was driving himself mad trying to identify the song, such a simple tune. _Clack clack, clack clack, clack clack clack,_ she pounded down the sidewalk ahead of him, clacking too loud to hear him hum, oblivious to his growing frustration. Even so, when she skidded around a corner into an alley (_Clackclackclackclackclack!_) the blurry song in his head at last came into focus.

…_H I, J K, LMNOP…_

The thudding of his boots came to a halt. If anyone asked (as if anyone'd dare) he'd say he was catching his breath a moment before returning to the chase. That was all there was here: The chase. Predator and prey. No echoes of a domestic life in daylight hours where a little girl was learning shapes and colors and letters from her Daddy, who smiled and encouraged and sang along with all the songs even as his stomach tied itself in knots, because letters made words and words made books and _of course_ he wanted her to read books someday because books would bring her joy and wonder and boundless knowledge, but they would also burden her with questions and ideas and truths, and what if she someday learned the _wrong_ truth? What if she someday demanded he defend such acts as ripping open a girl who might've had her own Daddy who'd taught her letters by singing a song that got stuck in his head long after she'd gone to bed? What if—

—she got away? _Someone_ had to pay for that liver, and if he returned to Rotti empty-handed he _would_ pay, one way or another. There would be no excuse, regardless of what melodies or memories haunted him. He could afford this respite no longer. He had to return to the chase.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

The melody continued to bounce around within his skull, but, under his mask's stoic glare, he smiled. He couldn't help it. He liked it when they ran.

She ran much faster than he'd ever hope to in full Repo gear, but that was okay. He'd catch up. He had all night. She didn't. In fact, if memory served, the corner she'd turned led straight into a dead end.

He heard voices as he approached the alley. A man and a woman, presumably her.

"Lemme guess: You'll pay 'later'?" He heard the sound of a zipper unzipping.

Behind the mask he frowned. The tempo laid down by heavy boots picked up a few beats.

"Not this time," came her voice.

"Pity." _Zip._ Pause. "So?"

"Here." The hollow click of credits changing hands. He sped up again and whirled around the corner.

It wasn't _exactly_ a dead end; a chain-link fence bounded the other end of the narrow alley. Someone taller and stronger than his quarry could get over it, maybe. Someone like the long-haired man holding the zydrate gun to a point above that cute little navel ring. He looked up.

"Shit! You brought Repo 'round here?" He tried to pull the gun away but the girl had already clamped both her hands on it and gripped it like a lifeline. Urban legend had it that if a Repo Man came across anyone carrying zydrate he could make some extra cash by bringing in the Z and any good organs the felon happened to have. That was a myth. They were just supposed to kill on sight, not waste precious time and tools on well-worn parts GeneCo didn't need.

"Come on, be fair," the girl said through gritted teeth.

"Don't you _dare_…" growled the voice of Repo as he advanced.

"Shit…" the dealer muttered again. He didn't want to be there, but he wasn't letting go of his zydrate gun either. Expensive equipment, that, not something you'd leave on the ground in some alley. He couldn't pull it out of his customer's grip. He wouldn't let go. With no other options, he pulled the trigger, his wide eyes fixed on the approaching Repo Man.

"Wrong move," said Repo.

"Let go!" Finally the dealer yanked his tool free. He desperately grabbed the top of the fence.

"Okay…" the victim mumbled, sinking into a sitting position with her back against the fence. She blinked blearily as it shook with the force of her dealer vaulting himself over the top, her hunter snatching at his fluttering coat. He put a hand on the top of the fence and for a moment looked like he would chase after the anesthesiologist repossessions famously did not require. Instead he heaved a long, frustrated sigh that got caught in his throat and turned guttural.

"Hey," his prey whispered.

He looked down, eyes narrow.

"I'm ready," she said with a faint smile and a vague hand gesture, "Slice away."

He gave another sigh, this one lacking the animal twist of the last, echoing less a prowling predator out a kill and more a middle manager who'd accidentally started his morning with decaf. His routine was disrupted and he was put out, but life goes on. So to speak.

He didn't bother to restrain or gag this one; she was content to slump against the fence, her feet sprawled apart, her hands limp at her sides, her eyes half-lidded and staring at the night sky. He crouched and opened his medical bag, first taking out her repo order to compare the blankly staring face in the picture to the dead-eyed visage before him. No surprises. He never mistook a face, but it was procedure, a necessary measure to prevent any… awkward misunderstandings. He wouldn't bother if it weren't for the fact that Rotti could be watching. It was one thing his… employer had always made completely clear. Any time, any place, Rotti could be watching.

Next he took out his scalpel, regarding her abdomen critically. No need to rip through any blouses this time; her hemline was already high enough to give him the access he needed. He cut a lengthy line an inch or two below the hem of her shirt, above the faint mark left by the zydrate gun. Her blood oozed out and pooled on the ground beneath them, a warm puddle on cool concrete. This was usually the part where the screaming star—well, had often already _started_—but the part where it got _loud_. Where fear took form and the nightmare came true.

Not tonight, though. She glanced down at the cut with a sort of polite interest, but her gaze soon returned to the sky. Perhaps she found it prettier. That was sad. He peered at her innards lit by his helmet's light and fumbled in his bag for something suited for the delicate task ahead. Though it didn't bear thinking about right now, he remembered when the sky wasn't blotted out by an impenetrable blanket of thick, gray smog. During the day it was blue and the sun blinding. At night you'd see the thumbnail shape of the moon surrounded by the white hot pinpricks of stars, all hanging in the deep, beautiful, black-blue of space. Those days—those nights—were long gone.

Right now, he needed to focus. You couldn't just snatch a liver up from where it nestled among its fellows and expect it to be reusable later. There were connections to sever first, veins and ligaments to handle.

Having retrieved the smaller scalpel suited for the task, he settled himself into a more comfortable position—kneeling between his patient's legs, amused by the pseudo intimacy—and got to work. It was sort of eerie, unsettling even, doing in silence against no protest what was normally accompanied by shrieks and struggles, so, to fill the quiet, once he'd settled into a rhythm he started humming again.

_A B, C D, E F G…_ No use fighting it. He doubted the blasted song would loosen its hold on his brain this year, much less tonight.

"…_how I won…der what… you are…_" his charge slurred, her voice weak from the blood loss and hazy from the zydrate.

"Wrong," he muttered. Twinkle Twinkle. Who would even teach that song to a child in a world where the visible presence of stars like diamonds in the sky was at best a bit of historical trivia?

"Wha…?"

"A B, C D, E F G…" he sang aloud so she'd identify the tune correctly. He trailed off into a low chuckle. Damn grave robbers and their damn junkies. Thanks to street zydrate, tonight's work had certainly taken a turn for the silly.

"Oh."

His victim frowned and fell silent as he finished his work, extracting her liver and sealing it away in one of GeneCo's organ preservation bags.

"'sthe same song."

"Hm?" he said, stowing the organ bag in the refrigerated compartment of his repo equipment case. Even with zydrate stopping the pain, he was surprised she'd stayed alive—not to mention more-or-less conscious—this long.

"Twinkle, twinkle…" she sang, pausing to cough weakly, "E, F… G…" Her eyes drifted closed. He watched her several seconds and saw no signs of breathing. She might be a little bit alive, still, but waking up? Never again.

As last words went, he'd heard more embarrassing, but he figured most hoped for better. He stowed the rest of his equipment and rose, humming to himself. It _was_ the same song, at least for that first bit, and even as the meters diverged, the melodies still matched up well enough. _Same tune, different words._

"You're right, sweetheart," he said, the Repo Man's coarse rasp echoing loudly off the quiet alley's walls, "Night-night, now."

The trip to GeneCo to drop off his collection and then back home to hose off the suit passed by in a blur. According to the babysitter (Nice lady. Took her inflated pay and didn't ask questions. Still, he'd feel much safer when Shilo was old enough to be by herself for a few hours.) Shilo had been sleeping soundly since her bedtime, but before going to bed himself he had to check on her anyway.

He cracked her bedroom door open, poked his head in, and looked at her. Sure enough, there she was, safe and sound and fast asleep. Colored light in ever-changing patterns filtered in through her window, level as it was with the distant billboards of the city. How many times had he told her to keep the curtains closed? He couldn't bear it, how all Shilo had to do was look out her window to see those ads, their warped concepts of "beauty" and glamorized debauchery and surgery sold with sex. He crept across her bedroom to the window and gently grasped the curtains.

He pulled them closed over the offending images as slowly and silently as possible, but still she stirred, disturbed by the change in lighting.

"Daddy?" she murmured.

"Go back to sleep, Shilo."

"Sing for me."

"Sh…"

He turned to find her blinking blearily and reaching her arms out to him. He knew from experience that if he let her get too excited it could be an hour before she wound down enough to go back to sleep, lullaby notwithstanding.

_Twinkle, twinkle, little star,_ he hummed on the edge of audibility, as if he could retroactively avoid waking her in the first place, _How I wonder what you are._ He knelt at her bedside and kept humming as she clumsily wrapped her arms around his neck. _Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky._ Whenever she hugged him he marveled at how small she was, even as she seemed to get bigger every day. So small and fragile, so easily he almost lost her…

_Twinkle, twinkle, little star._ She let go of him and he tucked her back under the covers. _How I wonder what you are._

"'sthe alpabit," she murmured. Her eyelids were drooping and her voice hazy from her sleepiness, but an amused smile pulled at her lips. Nathan wore a smirk of his own for a second.

"You're right, sweetheart," he whispered, even warier with the volume of his voice now her eyes had drifted closed, "Night-night, now."

_Same words, different tune._ He frowned as he turned to leave her room. Maybe he'd teach her Twinkle Twinkle sometime, teach her to remember the beautiful diamond-studded sky she'd never seen. It'd be good for one more person to remember. _Especially now there's one less._

He'd promised himself he wouldn't think of the job when he was with her, but it was impossible. It always crept in from the back of his mind like a tune without words, not showing its true face until it'd taken root. No matter how hard he tried to separate, dissociate… _God knows that I'm just one man…_

If only he were more, if only it were possible.

Before leaving her room he watched her for a long minute, once again fast asleep and now untouched by the dirty light from outside. Safe, for now. Something clenched inside him, not a part of his anatomy he could readily identify, but some fragile aspect of his very being. Forever.

It didn't matter if it was possible. He _would_ be more.


End file.
